


If His Lips are Silent...

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Sexual Tension, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This idea has been knocking about my head for ages now.  I'm still not entirely satisfied with it - and will probably prune bits here and there.</p><p>I suppose this could conceivably be a follow-on from 'A Friend in the Dark'</p>
    </blockquote>





	If His Lips are Silent...

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been knocking about my head for ages now. I'm still not entirely satisfied with it - and will probably prune bits here and there.
> 
> I suppose this could conceivably be a follow-on from 'A Friend in the Dark'

Jim sat on his couch, folded his arms and creased his brow over the problem of the little pile of books on his coffee table. Small and unobtrusive as they may have seemed, only five or so books in a pile, their presence in Jim Gordon’s apartment was puzzling.

He had not bought them with himself in mind. In fact, he had no idea why he had bought them at all. 

He had been following up a lead on a recent case, questioning shop owners in a very sketchy neighbourhood, when he had wound up in a second-hand bookstore. The dilapidated little bookstore was very still, in contrast to the buzz and rush of the city outside. The owner was nowhere in sight, and Jim had taken the opportunity to cast a careful eye over the place.

He had scanned the store, seeing nothing suspicious, when his eye had been caught by a particular row of leather-bound books, the ornate gilt lettering on the spine catching the light. He walked over and removed one from the shelf. The cover was even more ornate than the spine, a twisted and tangled pattern of gold with a peculiar, sinister elegance to it. Even the lettering was in the same off-kilter style, drawing his eye to slowly follow the line, paying attention to every twist and spike. ‘Art nouveau’ his brain supplied, in Barbara’s voice, from one of her conversations on art where he had mostly listened and nodded. Lifting his hand to the cover, he let his fingertip trace the same pattern as his eye, slow and thoughtful.

“You seem very taken with these, sir. I’d be more than happy to negotiate over the price with someone who has such a fine eye for aesthetics.”

Jolted, he turned his head to see the obsequious little shopkeeper beaming at him. Pulling his fingers from the cover of the book as if it had burnt him, his brow creased, he had started to correct him, 

“I wasn’t…”

Mistaking his reaction for some kind of haggling technique, the bookseller quickly offered a lower price for the set, his smile edging into desperation. Jim told himself he felt sorry for the shopkeeper, whose business was going nowhere in that neighbourhood, grimaced, and bought the damn books. When he got back to the car, Harvey asked him if he would like to go anywhere else on his shopping spree, and then helpfully added that he knew women, and Lee would probably respond better to a meal in some fancy restaurant, or a big piece of jewellery. Or lingerie. 

***

When he had got home that evening, he had slid the box unceremoniously under the coffee table in the living room, and busied himself with paperwork until bedtime. He felt oddly troubled by its presence in his apartment, though, his eye returning and returning to the jewelled colours and crooked gold lines that peeped out of the box when the light caught it, wrong in his plain and solid home. 

***

He had been too busy the next day, and the day after that to even consider the books – working until late, eating junk food on the run, and then passing straight out at night. The third day had involved a visit to Oswald Cobblepot, something that never failed to agitate him. 

If you had asked him, Jim would not have known precisely how to define his relationship with Oswald Cobblepot. In fact, the question would be likely to make him frown, and clench his jaw, and tap his fingers impatiently on his desk. They were not _colleagues_. It was not as straightforward as snitch and contact, and it wasn’t crooked cop and gangster on the rise, either. Jim still fiercely resisted ‘friends’. Even so, it was not _enemies._ Even when there had been distance after Falcone’s removal, the space between them had crackled with rage and disappointment and betrayal – but never hatred. Never that. 

Cobblepot, now a man trying to consolidate his new-found power, had been sitting disconsolately at his desk when Jim had arrived, looking to barter some information and bolster his new and still precarious position. He greeted Jim with his usual overfamiliarity, and offered champagne, which Jim had refused, as he always did. 

The conversation continued much as it usually did, push and pull, give and take. Oswald’s sharp mind was running even faster than usual since his ascension, and he almost trembled with nervous energy, pale eyes wide and intense, leaning forward in his chair, trying to convince Jim of this point or that. Jim responded with a decided shake of the head to some question and, exasperated, Oswald had leaned back in his chair, tilting his eyes to the ceiling and exhaling a frustrated sigh. The lamplight fell on him strangely like this, calling attention to the sharp angles of his face and whiteness of his throat, and Jim felt that familiar hot flash of irritation that Oswald’s dramatics often provoked in him. 

He folded his arms and set his jaw, sitting back in his own chair, refusing to be swayed by this display. From this new angle, Oswald’s narrow frame seemed oddly dwarfed and hidden by the long shadows in Fish’s old office. Jim’s irritation was abruptly displaced by the new and troubling awareness that he was _worried_ for him. He told himself firmly that this was irrational, ridiculous - he knew that Oswald was clever, and manipulative, and resilient, and downright _dangerous._ He also knew, though, that while Oswald’s brain worked twice as fast as everyone else’s – it _had_ to – he was no good in a fight, overshadowed physically by the dangerous men with whom he had chosen to associate.

This physical vulnerability of his had, for some reason, worked its way under Jim’s skin, ever since he had hauled the man from the trunk of Harvey’s car, and watched him hobble up the pier. He figured that most of it was to do with a life-long aversion to bullies, and his instinct to _protect,_ but his awareness of Oswald’s physicality was _different._ Visceral. It prickled at his skin when he was in his company, making him restless - acutely, uncomfortably aware of the other man’s presence. 

Even after he left, that empty office played on his mind, too. The club out front had Oswald’s stamp on it – but that was for show, for customers. The office was where _business_ was conducted, and it looked unclaimed, a temporary arrangement. Fish Mooney, Maroni – players at that level of the game depended on more than just muscle and turf. Jim might curl his lip at it, but it was about image, and force of personality – putting their own stamp on things. Even Oswald’s most bitter enemies could not deny that he had plenty of personality – Jim had a certain grudging admiration for his stubborn refusal to fit in with his colleagues - but the fly-by-night office held no traces of him. If his luck ran out tomorrow, and power shifted again, it would be as if he had never existed.

**

This last thought nagged at the back of Jim’s head for the rest of the day. He thought that he had chased it from his head while he was catching on paperwork at his desk, but he must have been wrong.

‘You got a problem, there?’

Jim looked up, frowning, to find Harvey peering at him over the top of his glasses. 

“What?” 

“You’re tapping the desk and sighing, fidgeting, and generally getting on my goddamn nerves. No-one likes paperwork, OK? Just get on with it. Or is there something on your mind? Is it your latest breakup? The luscious Lee?”

Jim gave him a sarcastic smile in response. If he was honest with himself, he had felt relieved that he and Lee were over. He had given himself no time to breathe after Barbara, and he felt vaguely guilty now about rebounding with Lee. 

“Actually, I was thinking about Cobblepot.”

“You’re a strange and frightening man, Jim. Maybe Arkham was a good assignment for you”

“You’re a funny guy, Harvey.”

“What’s bothering you about _Penguin_ today, then? I thought you’d finally kissed and made up after the fall-out from Falcone. And thank God for that, sitting at the bar while you two glared at each other across a table was getting pretty old. Even if Butch was pouring me the good stuff the whole time.”

‘”When you and Fish….when she was starting out….Did you actually look out for her…interests? Or was it all favours exchanged?”

Harvey’s chair creaked as he leaned back, laced his fingers over his stomach and looked smugly at Jim. 

“Are you asking for my wisdom on how to work with your boy Penguin?”

Jim opened his mouth to protest, and closed it again. He nodded, a faintly sick expression on his face.

“Look – me and Fish – it was a lot cleaner. Give and take, and I was willing to get my hands dirty – but we knew where we stood. We even gave advice if it was asked for. It was business. You, though….”

“I… _what?_ ” said Jim.

“Well. It’s _weirder._ You saved his life, for a start. Then you did it again. And again. That’s not like turning a blind eye to a couple of hold-ups. Or making sure you never search a specific warehouse. You don’t _want_ to work with him, but you keep winding up back at his door and watching his back.” Harvey took a bite of doughnut and chewed meditatively for a moment. ‘And y’know, he actually likes you. He thinks you’re friends. Pals”

Jim shook his head decidedly, “He _likes_ having someone inside GCPD."

Harvey shook his head, dismissing this. “Nah. If he wanted that, there’s easier folks to get on with around here. He likes _you._ ”

Jim frowned.

"Look – I don’t see what the big deal is. I liked Fish. Fish liked me. I didn’t have to like what she did. See, this is your problem. You like black and white. Good guys, bad guys. You want everyone to play by the book – but people are too messy and weird to fit into a rulebook. Life is complicated, Jimbo."

Jim just stared back at him.

"I can see I’ve had a profound impact on you. Now, let’s go – you can buy me a beer as thanks for my priceless wisdom."

**

Four beers and two whiskies later, Jim had arrived home, resolving never to try to keep pace with Harvey again. Stumbling into the living room, shedding his coat on the floor along the way, he slumped on the sofa. His eyelids had just been beginning to droop, when a little flash of gold caught his eye. Those _books._ He furrowed his brow, and dragged them out from under the table. 

Picking up the first one in the pile, he leaned back on the couch and stared at it fuzzily through the alcohol haze. Just as he had done in the shop, his brought his hand to the cover, almost unconsciously, and started to trace the twisted lines, slow and deliberate. And maybe it was down to the alcohol turning off his logical brain and hiding his internal rule-book, or talking with Harvey earlier, or just feeling tired and alone, but an image flashed through the fog of alcohol with startling clarity as he watched his fingers drag along the line, and that image was the long pale line of Oswald Cobblepot’s neck as he leaned backwards in his chair. 

His hand stilled, and he closed his eyes. The part of his brain that was still sober enough to be a detective told him to test his theory. Almost unwillingly, he began to trace the lines again, and there is was, that wholly familiar ache, deep and heavy and hot, and how the _hell_ could he have missed this? He opened his eyes to watch his own finger trace along the pattern, but now he _knew,_ that just made it _worse,_ and he felt the deep ache sharpen and focus into hunger, and his drunk brain sought to feed it by spinning images of his fingertips tracing along skin, and bones, and sharp, oddly elegant features. Panicked by where this was going, Jim dropped the book to the floor and walked straight into the bathroom, and the coldest shower he could stand. He took care of himself in there, and told himself flatly that he had thought about Lee – but he knew himself for a liar, and felt bad about using her again.

**

The next day, Jim refused to take painkillers in the morning, punishing himself by gritting his teeth and suffering through the hangover – trying to control the pain, control his response to it, control _something_. As he left his apartment, he grabbed the box of books from the coffee table. At least if they were in his desk drawer at work, then he wouldn’t have to think about them at home. Oswald Cobblepot was already a goddamned constant everywhere else in his life in the city, the precinct, the pier, Harvey’s car, his club – he had even shown up at Barbara’s. He didn’t have to keep a reminder of him at home. 

Harvey had eyed the cardboard box when he had arrived at work.

“Lee didn’t appreciate them? Told you to go for flowers”

Jim did not feel in a fit state to respond to this, and merely grunted vaguely, hoping Harvey would take the hint. 

“Y’know – I was thinking about yesterday, when you begged me to share my experience with you”

Jim felt his headache worsen.

“And I was thinking, you need to just…..go with the weirdness. You’re never gonna get black and white, and you need to work with what you’ve got. He thinks you’re his pal, and you – well, you’re a little weird yourself – looking out for him like you do. Worrying about him.”

Jim jerked his head up quickly. “I never said that!”

“You did. At the bar.”

Jim resolved never, _ever_ to get that drunk with Harvey again.

“Anyway – like I said. You’re weird, he’s weird. It’s weird. Just roll with it. It gets results.” Harvey leaned over and tapped the side of the cardboard box. “When Fish got her first club, I bought her the best bottle of booze I could afford on my pitiful salary. She laughed her ass off at how cheap it was, got me good and hammered on her best stuff, and kept my bottle behind the bar for luck. You take him these. He’s a smartass, and he likes everyone to _know_ he’s a smartass. He’ll like books. Tell him it’s for housewarming, congratulations, whatever you wanna call it.”

“You want me to give Oswald Cobblepot a present?” said Jim, disbelievingly.

“I suggested you give your _mob_ contact a token in recognition of your _business_ partnership. The fact that it’s some old books and not a bottle of good booze, and that you just called it a _present_ for _Oswald_ and not a business transaction with the Penguin would be a good example of the weirdness I was just talking about there, Jimbo.”

Jim shook his head, instantly regretted it - pressing the heels of his hands to his throbbing temples - and got to work on the pile of case files in front of him. When he went to get a black coffee mid-morning, though, he brought one back for Harvey too, as well as a hotdog – even though the smell flipped his stomach. 

**

He resolved to take the books to Oswald that afternoon. Having them sitting on his desk felt like having Oswald perching on the edge of his desk, staring at him while he worked. And maybe, _maybe,_ there was something in what Harvey said. Maybe if he defined it on his own terms, then it wasn’t like any other shady relationship in this city. Maybe it was different. Maybe if he saw him as a _really_ difficult friend, who made dangerous decisions. Who _gazed_ at him a lot. Jim grimaced, and decided to abandon clearer definitions completely. Harvey’s ‘weird’ was probably a hell of a lot safer.

**

When they arrived, Harvey headed straight to the bar, where Butch, who was reading a newspaper, was leaning. He had no idea how Harvey could even _contemplate_ more alcohol after last night.

Oswald had stood hurriedly to greet him, with his strange, old-fashioned manners - pleased to see him – but confused about why he was there again after yesterday, glancing at the small box under his arm.

“James, old friend. Another visit, so soon?” He smiled and tilted his head. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

Jim cleared his throat and tried to look as stern as he could. “I need to talk. Your office?”

Puzzled, Oswald gestured towards his office. Jim walked ahead of him, feeling his curious gaze burning the back of his head as he did so. 

When they reached the small room, Oswald headed straight for his chair, rubbing his right hip absently. Jim wondered for a moment if his leg hurt often, before telling himself to get to the matter at hand.

“I got you a, a thing,” he blurted. He felt his expression was probably a little panicked, and tried to paste a smile over it. 

Oswald’s eyes snapped to his, his brow creased in confusion, and Jim could practically see his overactive mind parsing the comment for some coded meaning.

“Is it…… _here?_ ” He asked tentatively . His voice lowered to a whisper, and his eyes darted meaningfully towards the door. _“Should I fetch Gabe?”_

Jim’s eyes widened in realisation.

“No, no…it’s not that kind of…not business…” He grasped for something to make it sound routine, mundane, clearing his throat. “Well, yeah – business. Your office.” He gestured somewhat pointlessly around the room. Oswald dutifully looked round the room and then back at him, mystified. “You…it’s a little empty. And you talked about trying to establish yourself. _Lawfully._ Without violence.” He cleared his throat and attempted to sound stern. “You need to show any _guests_ that it’s yours now…so I thought, I got…”

“You got me a present?” Oswald cut in, his tone disbelieving. His ludicrously expressive face was trembling somewhere between incredulousness and delight, eyes shining and a smile starting to pull at the corners of his mouth.

James looked at him. He was used to, and frequently embarrassed by, Oswald’s painfully obvious glee in his general presence, but he had never before made any effort to make him deliberately happy. Maybe making someone so happy appealed to his Boy Scout side. Maybe it appealed to his ego. Maybe he was still a little drunk from last night. Maybe he just _liked_ it. He swallowed hard, and put the box on the desk.

Oswald beamed at him and exhaled a thank-you laced with an absurd little burble of excited laughter before he had even looked in the box. He started to lift the books out of the box, long hands gentle, and mouth slightly open. His eyes were intent, taking in the lines and colours. Jim watched pale slim hands trace over the patterns, just like his own had done, and wondered what the likelihood was of him getting any sleep at all tonight. 

Oswald turned to Jim, a book still clasped tightly in his hands, with that open, soft look in his eyes that Jim now recognised as dangerous, dangerous. Before he could say anything, Jim spoke quickly, his voice gruff. 

“It’s nothing, really.”

Oswald stepped forward, and put a hand on Jim’s forearm.

“It’s very _far_ from nothing, Jim Gordon. It was _thoughtful,_ and _kind,_ and… I truly appreciate it.” 

He nodded once, squeezed Jim’s forearm tightly, and stepped back. Jim exhaled.

“I know you won’t drink on duty – but would you at least have coffee with me? You look a little……”

Oswald paused, and Jim could see him searching for any word that wasn’t ‘hungover’

“Like crap?” he suggested.

Oswald smiled sheepishly. “Well, I was going to say ‘wan’”

“‘Coffee would be good.”

And so Jim found himself sitting across from Oswald, quietly sipping coffee. It felt bizarrely restful, and Jim felt his headache ease, just a little. 

Oswald slid his hand forward a little on the table, leaning towards him, his face grave. Jim wondered where this was going.

“I wanted to tell you before, but things were not quite…right.” 

Jim guessed that ‘not quite right’ was the time after the big showdown, when they had spent most of their meetings glaring at each other, recriminations on the tips of their tongues. He tilted his head, waiting.

“I was so sorry to hear about Ms Kean”

Now _there_ was something he hadn’t been expecting. He blinked.

“My own mother, you know – well, you met her here. When I was younger, after my father died, her moods…..She would be… _unwell_ … sometimes." Oswald frowned down at his coffee cup. "It’s such a cruel thing – to be ill in one’s mind. And – Ms Kean - she seemed very lovely. I hope she recovers.”

Jim stared. One of the warmest, sincerest, most honest things he had heard since he arrived back in this city, and it had come from Oswald Cobblepot. 

“Thank-you.” 

Oswald shook his head a little, dismissing the thanks, still staring into the cup. Jim slid his own hand towards him a little to get his attention, stopping just, _just_ short of touching his fingertips. Oswald looked up, surprised. Jim looked him straight in the eye.

“I _mean_ it. Thank-you”

Oswald had that rare, open look in his eyes again. For once, Jim did not feel like looking away. 

When there was a sharp knock on the door, followed abruptly by Harvey’s entrance, both men jumped.

“We need to go, Jim. Just had a call about a new one. Is that _coffee_ you’re drinking? In a nightclub? You’re such a boy scout”

His looked at Oswald and Jim, who had both risen hurriedly from their chairs. He glanced from one to the other, his eyes shrewd.

“Or maybe not. Anyway, let’s go”

Oswald called after him as they left the office. “Wait, just a moment!”

One hand on the door handle, Jim turned to see him placing the books carefully on the shelf behind the desk. Turning to Jim, he smiled that incongruously sweet smile – the one a man like him had no business owning.

“Better?”

Jim schooled himself to a small smile. “Much”

**

When Jim got into bed that night, he sighed in relief at the cool pillows against his fragile hungover head, and told himself firmly that the matter was _resolved_ – the books were gone, and the nagging worry was gone. When he flicked the bedside lamp off, though, and lay in the dark, both hidden and exposed, he allowed himself to imagine cool fingertips dragging against his skin, and his teeth against a long neck, and knew it was not a matter of if, but when.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've got this far, thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> The title is part of a quote from Freud on how we give away our own unconscious secrets in one way or another: "'If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips".
> 
> I go by sunlitroom over on Tumblr.
> 
> Happy to chat in the comments :)


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